


Ambrosia

by gala23



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demisexuality, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Food, Food Porn, M/M, Oysters, Temptation, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala23/pseuds/gala23
Summary: There’s a reason why when Aziraphale and Crowley dine together, only Aziraphale actually orders any food.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the way Crowley watches Aziraphale eat in the TV series.

“Do you suppose you’re allowed to do good deeds now? I mean, I suppose there still _are_ rules, but if no one is checking, well.”

Aziraphale and Crowley are feeding the ducks in St. James' Park, a habit that dies hard even when there is no longer actually a need for a discreet meeting place. So does the habit of having theological discussions on the nature of angels and demons. 

“If I am, and I’m not saying I would anyway, does that also mean you’re allowed to start tempting?” Crowley takes some bread from Aziraphale’s bag and tosses it precisely halfway in between two large drakes. A duck fight breaks out. 

“I would never!” Aziraphale is indignant. “I’m just saying, you could do good if you wanted, and not just as part of the Arrangement.”

“Oh, really, angel?” Crowley’s raised eyebrows emerge from behind his shades. “You would never? Rome, 41 AD. You tried to tempt me to try oysters. You even used the word _tempt_ , don’t deny it.” 

“A figure of speech; it’s not like I was leading you down a path of sin! Oysters, like all food, were created by the Almighty to provide nourishment and, dare I say, be enjoyed. I don’t understand why you don’t like it.” 

Crowley, who has not eaten anything more substantial than an ice lolly since before the invention of sliced bread, huffs. “It’s not like you and I need it, so why bother? Alcohol is much more fun. Great invention, that.” 

“As long as it keeps you coming to lunch with me.” Aziraphale smiles and tosses more bread to the ducks. Quite a crowd has gathered in front of them, because the bag never runs out of bread and Aziraphale and Crowley have been there for some time, a consequence of suddenly not actually having anywhere to be. “Remember ambrosia? Dreadful stuff. It’s still all they drink in Heaven.” 

“I actually quite liked it,” says Crowley. “At least, I think I did. Haven’t had that in millennia.” Somehow, living past the End has set both of them thinking back before the Beginning. They are quiet for a while, lost in thought, until one of the ducks, realizing its supply has run dry, actually waddles up onto the shore to peck at Aziraphale’s shoes. 

“Oh! Dreadfully sorry,” the angel says, and absently tosses a last handful of bread. “Shall we then? It is getting on lunchtime. Any suggestions?” 

“Hmm. If we go somewhere with oysters, and I try them, it will be because you have tempted me to, therefore proving that you are able to tempt. I know a place just down the street, come on.” 

Aziraphale frowns. “This is some sort of infernal logic, you can’t call it temptation if you merely decide to do it for your own ends. I would have to be _trying_ to tempt you.” He pauses, looks Crowley up and down, and relents. “But if you’re offering, that’s all right then. Lead on, dear fellow.” 

Aziraphale orders a set of six oysters, three kinds, which he painstakingly picks from the extensive list of varieties. Crowley rolls his eyes, insisting they must all be fundamentally the same, and picks up the wine list for thorough review. Aziraphale reminds him that hypocrisy is considered a sin and Crowley replies that it’s right up his alley, then, and takes fifteen minutes to choose a wine. 

When the oysters arrive, Crowley eyes them with skepticism so strong it leaks out around his dark glasses. “They look like a cup full of maggot innards. I see enough of those in Hell.” 

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Aziraphale admonishes, examining the shellfish excitedly. “These on the left will be a bit sweeter, and the ones on the right are more briny, we’ll start with those. Now, you take this tiny fork…”

He demonstrates detaching the meat from the shell, and gestures for Crowley to follow suit.

“You just like the tiny forks, don’t you? You probably have a whole collection in your flat, I’m checking next time, you probably arrange them and everything—” Crowley stops when Aziraphale clinks the shells of their oysters together. “Cheers then, here goes.” 

“Cheers.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes blissfully as he pours the oyster into his mouth. This one is indeed briny, and a little firmer than he prefers, but delicious nonetheless.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Crowley’s face contorted into the kind of mask of disgust usually reserved for reviewing Aziraphale’s magic tricks.

“Vile,” he manages thickly. “Absolutely vile, congealed seawater, why do you _like_ these things? Oh, I should market these to rich people, make them ungodly expensive and convince them that they have to pretend to like the feeling of swallowing rubbery chunks suspended in snot.”

“The humans beat you to that one, I’m afraid. You really don’t like it? The flavor is so delicate, and the texture you get used to. Try this one on the left, it’ll be less chewy.” 

“No. Absolutely not.” Crowley shudders. “You can have the rest, I’ll stick to this wine, thanks.” He takes a reinforcing sip and settles into his familiar posture, elbows on the table, watching Aziraphale enjoy his meal. 

On the third oyster, Aziraphale stops. "Why are you giving me that look?" he demands. 

Crowley, who had been wrinkling his nose, grimaces further. "I'm imagining it now. Every time you eat one I can feel it in my mouth." He takes an enormous swig of the Sancerre he had picked out for them. "Absolutely ruined. I'll need fifty years before I try food again."

"Oh dear," says Aziraphale, setting the oyster back down. "This was a bad first choice, wasn't it? I should have started you on something easy. Grilled cheese! Children love grilled cheese, and they've become ever so sophisticated recently. The sandwiches, not the children, of course. I had the most scrumptious goat cheese and arugula--" 

Crowley cuts him off. "I'm not a child, angel. I'm just out of the habit. Don't see the point, really, since no food could possibly be as delicious as the faces you make while eating it--" 

He stops. His words hang in between them, over the remaining oysters. For one surreal moment he imagines sucking the words back in like slimy mollusk juice. 

Aziraphale glows, but quickly covers it when he sees Crowley's frozen face. 

"Well then, I shan't push it. More wine?" 

Crowley holds out his glass gratefully. Aziraphale fills it just a bit fuller than usual, then reaches for another oyster. Crowley reaches out to stop him. 

"Please don't." 

The angel smiles indulgently and signals the waiter for the next course.


	2. Chapter 2

Now that the Apocalypse has been averted and their respective departments have stopped breathing down their necks (not that they ever did much of that, but it was the potential that kept the pressure on), Aziraphale and Crowley find that they have more time for leisurely meals. They keep up their projects, of course; Aziraphale still _happens_ to run into various community organizers to give them a pep talk and a sudden infusion of angelic energy to keep up their good work, and Crowley keeps his spot on the UI team at Snapchat, but it goes a lot faster when there’s no need for memos in triplicate. 

With their newfound free time, the angel and demon surprise themselves by dining together every day for an entire week. Neither of them have mentioned what Crowley said, but the demon could swear that Aziraphale is enjoying his food more, well, noticeably with each meal. At first Crowley thought it was just his own embarrassment making him notice every sigh of satisfaction and every sensuous slide of a spoon between Aziraphale’s lips with particular clarity. But after a week he is convinced that the angel has never actually made that sound before, not even for the most scrumptious chocolate mousse. Then, because although overthinking is really more Aziraphale’s department, that doesn’t mean Crowley can’t sometimes try his hand, Crowley decides it must be because _Aziraphale_ is embarrassed, and that _he_ is overthinking what he looks like while eating, which would explain the uptick in blissful sighs. Crowley very deliberately does not comment. By the following Saturday when they head back to Aziraphale’s bookshop for an after-dinner drink, he almost believes things are back to the usual. 

Aziraphale brings out a choice wine from his cellar, as usual, and pours them a toast, as usual, then throws the demon completely for a loop by seating himself at the end of the sofa instead of in his own chair, which is where the angel sits, where he _has always sat_. Crowley, who is already pleasantly tipsy, reels for a moment, takes a step towards the chair, then reverses course back towards the sofa. The upright way Aziraphale sits has never been suited to sofas, which are made more for Crowley-style lounging, but at least he doesn’t take up a lot of space. Crowley is still free to throw himself down on the other end, his back up against the corner, drawn-up feet almost brushing the angel’s knees. He takes off his dark sunglasses and tosses them somewhere, because that is a very usual thing to do when he is drinking with Aziraphale. 

Crowley has been overthinking his regrettably suggestive remark for a whole week and is almost ready to start overthinking the change in seating arrangement instead when Aziraphale does the most unexpected thing yet. He _brings it up_. 

“Thank you for suggesting the souffle, it was quite delicious,” Aziraphale begins innocently. “Though maybe I shouldn’t be thanking you at all; if the faces I make really are more delicious, you should be thanking me.” 

Crowley’s stomach drops down somewhere beneath the sofa. Aziraphale doesn’t even look at Crowley when he says it, but the way he is staring ahead makes it clear that he really, really wants to glance over at him. Crowley gives it a measured five seconds and Aziraphale breaks, his eyes flicking over just momentarily. Then he gives it another five seconds, just to watch the blush appear in his cheeks. After five more seconds, Crowley swings his legs down from the sofa, scoots over to sit next to the angel, and leans close.

“Thank you.” 

Crowley knows how to play it cool. He’s had practice, damn it; he’s navigated the politics of Hell and averted the Apocalypse, both of which require a frankly supernatural ability to ad-lib. Never mind that his chest is tight with the fear that Aziraphale is going to say something disapproving, like to please stop looking at him like that, which reminds Crowley that he is in fact currently looking at the angel like…something, at least. 

Crowley continues to look, because it would look silly if he moved away now.

“That’s—” Aziraphale glances over at Crowley, takes a deep breath, sips his wine, clears his throat, and starts again. “That’s not the only—what I mean to say is, there are other—”

“Spit it out, angel.”

“There are other reasons I might make those kinds of faces!” The words come out in a rush, followed immediately by another sip of wine and studied avoidance of Crowley’s gaze.

Understanding dawns. Crowley’s stomach must have returned from wherever it fell from because it twists with something like apprehension. 

“Reasons like—like this?” Crowley chalks it up to his powers of cool that his voice only breaks once. He reaches up to stroke his fingertips down Aziraphale’s cheek, turning his face towards him. A smile blooms on the angel’s face.

“Yes.” 

Crowley leans forward and kisses Aziraphale, who meets him halfway. The first touch of the angel’s lips send a shock through Crowley that can’t be described as anything other than _divine_ , followed by a rush of something quite a bit more wicked. 

Crowley is not unfamiliar with lust as a concept, of course. He is a demon; in fact, he is the demon who invented skinny jeans, a one-two punch of lust and discomfort for all genders. But he never identified it in himself before, and only recognizes the twisting heat in his abdomen from all the artistic depictions of lust represented as a heat, or a fire. Like fire but smooth. Aziraphale’s lips are smooth. So is his tongue. 

Aziraphale makes tiny sounds in his throat while they are kissing, and Crowley wants more of it. He slithers into the angel’s lap to get a better angle, to press his tongue between his lips, to taste the sounds instead. Then he gets curious and slides his lips down to Aziraphale’s neck, above his collar, and Aziraphale gasps. After another few nips at the angel’s neck, Crowley moves to undo Aziraphale’s bow tie with his teeth, which seems like a very cool move, but Aziraphale pushes him aside and fussily undoes it himself, before too much demon drool can ruin it. Crowley has to steady himself with a hand on Aziraphale’s chest, which is warm and pleasing, even through layers of clothing. He reaches his other hand down to curl around the angel’s waist, solid yet soft, much like his lips, which Crowley can’t seem to get enough of. 

Aziraphale gently guides Crowley’s hand lower, and lower, until it slides over a firm heat in the front of the angel’s trousers. Crowley grins against Aziraphale’s lips. “Really making the effort, are we, angel?”

“I want to know how it feels,” Aziraphale replies breathlessly. 

“Never tried before? Not even in all those gentlemen’s clubs?” Crowley asks, rubbing his hand slowly over the cloth of Aziraphale’s fly. 

“No. Well, not really, not, well…” 

Crowley pulls back and fixes Aziraphale with a look of delighted disbelief. “Not _really_ , what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not like this, exactly, not with someone. Only by myself. Just to see, you know.” 

Crowley does know. He’s done it himself, as a sort of market research, and found it disappointing. There is nothing disappointing about imagining Aziraphale doing the same. 

“Oh, you bad angel,” he murmurs, and kisses him again, this time keeping his hands busy with the buttons on the front of Aziraphale’s jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt. So many buttons, but Crowley doesn’t even mind, because Aziraphale is helping, and arching up under the demon’s touch. Halfway through, Aziraphale pushes Crowley’s jacket off his shoulders and manages to undo a few more of the buttons of his silk shirt, not that many were done up to begin with. Finally, Crowley opens the last of the buttons and pushes the cloth aside to smooth his hands across Aziraphale’s skin, breaking their kiss to watch Aziraphale gasp at the touch. When Crowley’s thumbs catch on his nipples, Aziraphale’s whole body jerks and he moans, moans that turn to a breathy whine when Crowley flicks his thumbs up and down. 

It really is _delicious_ , to soak in Aziraphale’s pleasure. Crowley leans down to tease one nipple with his tongue, and shivers when the angel’s hips push upward in response. Aziraphale enjoys the sensation with perfect abandon, and it is perfect, absolutely perfect, Crowley thinks, and is glad his mouth is otherwise occupied, or he might have accidentally said that out loud. 

Crowley finds new ways to tease the angel, discovering a slight ticklishness to his sides which is very gratifying, and a particular spot on his throat that is perfect for grazing teeth over. Finally, after breaking off a particularly deep kiss, Aziraphale finds enough breath to gasp, “This is so good, so good, Crowley, do you want—” and he reaches to undo the last of Crowley’s shirt buttons, which is still somehow holding on. From there his hand inches down, lower, onto Crowley’s impossibly tight jeans, but Crowley stops him gently. 

“Just keep making those sounds, angel, that’s all I want,” he says, and kisses Aziraphale again. If angels are sexless unless they really make an effort, that means demons are, too. And right now Crowley wants to put all of his effort towards finding the most efficient way to coax another moan out of Aziraphale. It seems more efficient without the three layers of clothing still covering Aziraphale’s arms, so Crowley snaps his fingers and the jacket, waistcoat, and shirt vanish. 

On cue, the angel stiffens and fixes Crowley with a glare. “Where did you send them? You know it’s my favorite coat,” Aziraphale pouts.

“Don’t worry, angel, they’re just upstairs. Even hung them up.” There is a hint of an eye roll in Crowley’s tone, but Aziraphale beams nonetheless, and pulls Crowley down for another kiss, his hands wandering across the demon’s back, twisting in the fabric of the shirt that still hangs loosely off of his shoulders whenever Crowley slides a finger over Aziraphale’s nipple. He nearly pulls the shirt clean off when Crowley dips his thumb under the waistband of his trousers. 

Encouraged, Crowley slithers down to kneel on the floor between Aziraphale’s legs and undoes the front of his trousers, nuzzling at the newly exposed skin of his waist and hips. Getting the trousers down turns out to be a bit of a hassle, so Crowley, who has never had much patience, snaps his fingers again and the angel is naked before him, blushing down his neck and shivering under Crowley’s gaze. 

The shiver becomes a whole-body lurch when Crowley takes him in his mouth, and the noise Aziraphale makes is absolutely incredible. Crowley takes his time to find out exactly what he has to do to make that noise happen again. Aziraphale’s hands are fluttering helplessly over his shoulders and neck, his moans turning breathier, closer and closer to a whimper. One of his hands finds purchase in Crowley’s hair, stroking when Crowley slows down the slick slide of his mouth, tugging and twisting when he flicks his tongue. Crowley has always been able to do really weird things with his tongue, but making Aziraphale writhe in pleasure seems like the absolute best use of this particular skill, and he’s not sure why he didn’t try earlier. 

The tugging gradually becomes more frantic, and eventually Aziraphale gasps, “come here, come up here, my dear, come—” so Crowley slides up beside him, replacing his mouth with his hand, and watches Aziraphale’s face as his orgasm peaks, mouth open, crying out as hot liquid spills over Crowley’s fingers. Crowley rests his forehead against the angel’s temple and kisses his jaw as he rides out the aftershocks, his eyelids fluttering, chest heaving as he catches his breath. 

“That was exquisite,” Aziraphale says, bliss written all over his face. He reaches out to lay a hand on Crowley’s cheek. “You are exquisite.” 

Crowley grins smugly, rubbing his cheek against the angel’s hand. “Are you admitting you really do like me?” 

Aziraphale gives him one of his beatific, beaming smiles. “Of course, my dear.” 

Crowley has never felt so… blessed. 

Suddenly and miraculously, both Crowley’s hand and Aziraphale’s stomach are completely clean. Even more miraculously, the sofa is now the length of a queen size bed. Aziraphale pulls tasteful pale blue tartan sheets over himself, which definitely hadn’t been there when Crowley made the sofa bigger a moment ago, and sighs contentedly. He lifts an arm and Crowley, before he can really think about it, slides underneath it and lays his head on the angel’s shoulder. They lay in silence for a few minutes. 

Suddenly a look of incredulous delight comes across Crowley’s face, and he turns towards Aziraphale. “Have I just been tempted?” 

Aziraphale stiffens guiltily. His eyes slowly turn towards Crowley. “Have you?”

“You tell me, angel; according to you, it only counts if you were _trying_. So?” 

Aziraphale dithers a bit, his mouth opening and closing, but finally speaks. “After what we talked about, well, I actually have seen you do acts of good—don’t say anything, I know you don’t like to admit it, but you have done good things. For me, specifically. So, I thought I would try this temptation business. On you. Specifically.” 

Crowley grins. “I’m flattered to be the target of your wiles, angel, though you could have been more subtle. Really, all those ice creams?” His expression turns to one of pride, and he snuggles up closer to Aziraphale’s side. “You’re a natural.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that, and rather thinks he should be offended, but it feels so nice to have Crowley tucked up against him that he decides to save it for later. He’ll bring it up the next time they have lunch.


End file.
